Patients and Perseverance
by tetleybag
Summary: Hogwarts seems to have a strange effect on Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank's hand-eye coordination.


A/N: This was written as a tribute to The Real Snape – friend, writer, mod, beta and source of amazing recipes _extraordinaire – _and betaed by the equally wonderful Kelly Chambliss. Thank you both, for everything!

The world and witches of Harry Potter belong to J.K. Rowling and legal licensees. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

/\/\/\

**Patients and Perseverance**

/\/\/\

**by Tetley**

/\/\/\

Happiness reigned supreme in the minuscule cottage by the Quidditch pitch.

Which was unusual, given that it normally lay quite abandoned, there by the southern grandstand on the flank that overlooked the largest part of the grounds. At one time, it had been the cottage of the games mistress, but ever since Rolanda Hooch had moved into the spacious two-room suite that she shared with an especially preferred colleague, it rarely hosted anyone but the occasional visiting coach or substitute gamekeeper.

It was currently home to one of the latter.

Said substitute gamekeeper was not alone, though. This one never moved into a place all by herself; Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank simply could not exist unless she was surrounded by at least a dozen paws, claws, or hooves. Or if she could, she saw no point in it.

Take the owl for example, over there on its perch by the fireplace. It looked unusually tired for this time of the night, and there was a bandage around her wing. If one looked very closely, one might detect a faint hint of indignation around the narrow beak - which anyone would understand who knew the feeling of being held by two firm, human hands while two even firmer hands fondled one's aching wing and made one's bones tingle with a wooden stick. But the owl's half-closed eyes and fluffed-up plumage suggested that she was not uninclined to forgive, that she saw a considerable upside in being warm and dry and safe, and that she had to admit that the ministrations had indeed made her wing hurt a tiny bit less.

In a half-covered cage by the owl's feet, there lay a sleeping verret. It was hard to recognise, curled-up as it snoozed there in the straw, with bald patches where the fur was re-growing only slowly after what must have been some kind of skin infection. At a little distance, on the rug in front of the hearth where the last glimmer of the evening's fire had not yet died, a motley-coloured mutt had just picked up enough momentum to swing around on its back. It rocked three or four times to find the right balance, then dozed off once more with the sigh of a satisfied dog in possession of a pleasantly warm tummy.

Wilhelmina herself was in her bed. She was lying on her side, half-covered by the sheets, and a faint snore here and there between her shallow, regular breaths betrayed that she had just fallen asleep.

In short, there was nothing unusual for an autumnal evening at the Grubbly-Planks', just before midnight.

The only thing that was noteworthy, perhaps, was that there was another human in the room.

This human was currently just as naked as Wilhelmina, if slightly more awake. There was a warm glow on her cheeks that didn't look as if it came just from the heat of the fireplace, and she had her arm wrapped lightly around Wilhelmina's shoulder.

The woman felt decidedly good in that bed. There was Wilhelmina's body, warm and sleep-heavy against her own, a leg crossed leisurely over her own. A faint scent of pipe tobacco and fire, and a hint of bergamot. And there was the hand - the comforting hand that rested between her legs, on the spot that was still tender enough to send small jolts of pleasure through her body every time Wilhelmina's arm moved in her sleep.

Oh, anatomy and physiology, they were beautiful things.

Poppy Pomfrey placed a gentle kiss on the head of close-cropped hair by her breasts, pulled the bedsheet a little higher over the square shoulder with the France-shaped birthmark, and smiled.

Had anyone told her six weeks ago that she would spend a night in the bed of the substitute gamekeeper and Care of Magical Creatures teacher, her first impulse would probably have been to take their temperature. Had anyone suggested that she would throw to the wind all her resolutions never to become involved with colleagues or patients, that she would abandon herself in these arms, let herself go, voice her desires, ask for pleasures she'd thought herself far too old for, and spread her legs wide for the hands, the lips, the tongue of this sturdy, down-to-earth rock of a woman - had anyone told her that, she would have given them a piece of her mind and a healthy dose of Prudence Primrose's Propriety Potion into the bargain.

And yet, here she was.

**oOo **

"Goodness gracious me!"

Those were the first words Poppy Pomfrey had uttered when she saw who had just entered the hospital wing on that last Thursday in August, a blood-soaked bandage around her left hand and a sheepish grin on her face.

"If it isn't the most accident-prone gamekeeper that has ever walked these grounds."

Term had not yet started, and Poppy had counted on at least one more blissfully quiet day of taking inventory and re-ordering supplies. Instead, she now took off the reading glasses with which she'd been inspecting the stock of stomach remedies in the back of the bottom shelf (MagiCoal tablets and EZDigest, sage-based infusions for milder cases, and an ample supply of the pungent, bogey-green placebo potion that worked such miracles against Double History of Magic Disease), straightened her snow-white apron, and hoisted herself up from the floor. With a flick of her wand, she Summoned a pink jar from a cabinet and a roll of bandages from a drawer, and strode over to meet her charge.

"If anyone had told me you had returned to Hogwarts I'd have ordered twice as many jars of DermaMend and three extra tins of muscle ointment," she sighed as she made the woman sit on a chair by the window. "Triwizard tournaments I can handle, overzealous Quidditch mistresses and hypochondriac ghosts as well, but you and your tools ..." She took off the bandage - more gently than she pretended - and frowned. "Pinched, again?"

Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank nodded. "Hinge of the paddock gate. Just wanted to oil it, but it had other ideas."

"You really are ..."

"An incurable oaf, I know."

"A medical singularity, I was going to say." Poppy tutted at the shiny bruise that surrounded a small gash in the base of the left thumb. "I simply fail to understand how a women who spends her days around beings that sting, bite, peck, secrete acidic slime or have their rear ends explode, and never receives so much as a scratch from them - in short, how such a woman is apparently unable to come within a half-mile radius of a hammer without landing herself in the hospital wing. How on _earth_do you manage when you're at home?"

"Barely," Wilhelmina grunted. "'S why I applied to be back in the first place. Nothing like free health care if you're a dolt with a DIY habit."

"Welcome back, then," Poppy said, and a small twitch of the lips compromised her otherwise stern expression as she opened the jar and cast a quick germicidal charm over her right hand before she dabbed her finger into it.

"You know the routine," she said, and watched Wilhelmina brace herself for the sting of the ointment that would activate the cells of the skin to reproduce at twelve times their normal rate.

Poppy didn't usually enjoy healing healers. They tended to ask hellish numbers of questions, or what was even worse, involve her into lengthy discussions of remedies when all she really needed to do was concentrate on a simple spell to heal the light sprain that was most certainly not a complicated bone fracture, or the tiny contusion that, no, wasn't going to metastasise quite yet.

Treating Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, however, was nothing short of a pleasure. Well, to the extent that another person's injury could be deemed a trigger of pleasure, of course. There was no scepticism in those eyes; there hadn't even been so much as a questioning glance when Poppy once arrived with an unlabelled flask (she ran this small test with every member of the healing professions). Instead, Wilhelmina just sat there, quietly enduring the sting and watching with curiosity as the haemorrhage stopped, the pink connective tissue cells multiplied with a faint sizzle, and the blue and green and violet of the surrounding skin faded back into the solid tan that was normal for a gamekeeper's hand.

"Excellent," Wilhelmina said as she got up, and she thanked Poppy with a playful bow. Poppy reciprocated with a curtsey and couldn't help smiling as Wilhelmina once more took her leave from the hospital wing. It would remain to be seen for how long.

Wilhelmina had only spent a few weeks at Hogwarts that January, stepping in for Hagrid when the poor man was so indisposed after Rita Skeeter had dragged his sizeable secret out into the open. Personally, Poppy couldn't see how anyone could not have noticed that a bit of giant blood ran in those oversized veins, or how anyone could have minded (given how practical it was to have a man of his size and strength yet the soul of a Labrador around), but perhaps it was something different to see it spelled out in black letters on white. Perhaps it was easier to live with a fact if one didn't have to acknowledge it explicitly.

In any case, that had been when Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank had first arrived at Hogwarts. Poppy had met her when Wilhelmina had come to the hospital wing to ask for some potion or other for a sick beast. She'd been quite intrigued by this woman, she had to admit. Impressive, she was, in her rugged trousers and flannel shirt, with a deep voice and forearms to put many a Hogwarts man to shame, yet with a shy streak that Poppy found really most charming.

Add to that the clumsiness that began to manifest itself about a week after Wilhelmina had joined the faculty, with a monstrous bruise from an intimate encounter with a crossbeam in the stable, if Poppy remembered correctly. Yes, it was the bruise. The cut had been three days later. Or had the tense shoulder come first?

So, yes, she liked this woman. And despite all the joking and nagging and needling, despite the little voice on her shoulder that told her that it really didn't do to draw joy from another person's haplessness, there was a part of her that sorely missed the various treatment sessions once Hagrid had recovered. And she had a feeling that she wasn't the only one who had enjoyed them After all, while the bruise had still been sizeable, the cut had been nothing an animal healer couldn't have fixed by herself in no more than a minute.

Those were Poppy's thoughts as she put away the bandages and the ointment, and as her eyes fell on the label of the pink jar.

_DermaMend forte_ it said. _Novel formulation for human and veterinary use. Also works on magical beings._

Poppy Pomfrey smiled and softly closed the medicine cabinet.

**oOo **

Two days later, Poppy stood by a bay window in the hospital wing and drank her tea.

She had finished taking inventory, sent off the last order forms, and put fresh sheets on the twelve beds in her ward.

Time for a little break.

She had made herself a cup of her favourite - a light, flowery Darjeeling, just the right strength to be a bit of an early-afternoon pick-me-up but not offend the taste buds like the thick staff room brew that was getting more intolerable by the term. This ongoing competition between Filius and Minerva had taken a decisive turn towards the ridiculous.

Poppy took a small sip and let her gaze drift over the grounds. Tomorrow, the children would arrive, and the whole premises seemed abuzz with anticipation. Rolanda had hoisted the flags by the Quidditch pitch, the boats were bobbing in the small, natural harbour on the northern shore, and on the paddock by the pumpkin patch, the one with the gate of the rapacious hinge, there were the Hogwarts Thestrals, grazing lazily in the sun.

She looked up when she saw Wilhelmina coming out of the Forbidden Forest. There was a dog of indescribable breed and colour cantering around her, transporting dry branches from here to there and looking generally very busy familiarising himself with the scent of the place and the place with the scent of himself.

What a curious woman she was, Wilhelmina. She and Poppy didn't run into each other often, for their seats at the High Table were far apart, and Poppy rarely had reason to be in the staff room. Even when they did meet - usually in the hospital wing - Wilhelmina seldom spoke much. Still, Poppy couldn't help feeling that Wilhelmina had taken as much of a liking to her as she had taken to Wilhelmina. She'd have to be very mistaken if it was simply the gratitude towards the healer that she saw in Wilhelmina's eyes when the woman took leave after yet another successful cure. And while Wilhelmina always had a dry joke on her lips, she didn't often smile when she spoke to someone. (Well, calling it a smile was perhaps a bit of an overstatement, but there had clearly been a dimple here and there as they conversed over the various bruises and gashes.)

Poppy took another sip of tea and pondered the matter. Wilhelmina was the mannish type. Poppy had no doubt that she felt more comfortable around women, and had probably been romantically involved with a few.

Could it be that Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank was _flirting_with her?

No.

Highly unlikely.

Poppy had never spent much time around women who were attracted to other women - at least not that she knew of. She probably simply wasn't used to a woman being a bit on the gallant side. Surely Wilhelmina's behaviour was not much different from Albus Dumbledore giving her a twinkle over a quickly-administered potion (albeit considerably less patronising), or Filius conjuring up a bunch of hydrangeas for having a patch of student-induced chicken feathers removed from his forehead. It was probably natural in women of her kind. It certainly was in Rolanda.

Then again, Rolanda flirted with _everyone_.

Still. Wouldn't anyone looking for a woman at Hogwarts rather turn towards someone curvaceous and charming, like Aurora Sinistra? Or, if they could take brains and wits in a woman, Minerva McGonagall, whom everyone assumed to be single after all?

Indeed, it was highly unlikely that someone would flirt with the ageing, slightly plump matron, who even still wore an old wedding band on her left hand.

Yes, that old wedding band.

Poppy smiled as she fondled it with her thumb. He'd been a good man, her Paracelsus. A kind husband and a good father, not the worst a woman could get in the fifties. He hadn't objected to her going out to work and even abandoned his potions lab to watch the two children when no grandmother was available. His massages had been legendary, his pea soup edible, if a tad disappointing for a potions man.

There had been only one thing he'd never been able to do for her.

It wasn't as if she'd never tried to teach him. She'd tried to broach the subject a dozen times, carefully avoiding too clear an indication that she'd done her own practical research on the matter. She'd tried to guide him with her body, with her hands, with well-timed moans and encouragements. At one point, she'd even slipped him the book of that American Muggle who had explained it all in perfectly understandable terms. Yet Paracelsus Pomfrey was a man of his era. There were things he did not do with his hand, much less with any other body part that clearly wasn't made for the task, and there was no way of convincing him that no, length did not equal quality, and no, it _wasn't_a law of nature for a man to look down on his wife's face during the act.

Dear Paracelsus Pomfrey.

She had loved him, all things considered, had grieved for long after he'd departed this earth much too early. And even though she'd decided to drop the "Mrs" and go by "Madam" again when the children were grown, even though she didn't mind the fact that she was free for a flirt and then some when she met Florean Fortescue one day in the seventies, she didn't regret her married life for a minute.

Well, except perhaps the occasional moment of it.

Poppy took another sip of tea and resumed her watch.

Wilhelmina was now walking towards Hagrid's hut. She was smoking a pipe, and Poppy found that it looked strangely alluring. She didn't condone tobacco use, but there was something soothing about pipes. Pipe smokers weren't after the quick fix. They were after the slow pleasure, and Poppy could relate to that.

Poppy Pomfrey liked slow pleasure. She didn't like being rushed, loved taking her time just as she loved it when someone took their time with her. The pursuit was so often as much fun as the object, the means as enjoyable as the end. Florean, for example, could spend hours stirring his fantastic strawberry-panna cotta swirl, and there was nothing like watching him do it, dipping a waffle into the pot here and there, enjoying the fact that one only needed one hand to stir, and putting him to the test of just how determined he was to maintain a steady rhythm in his spoon. They hadn't been together long, had discovered too many different ideas of togetherness for a happily ever after, but oh, it had been a lovely few months.

Down by Hagrid's hut, Wilhelmina had pocketed her pipe and reached for the handle of the door. It had been unlocked and apparently not fully closed. She pulled it open just a crack, poked her head inside, and after a little while, opened it a tad wider.

Ears hanging and chaps dangling even less invitingly than usual, Hagrid's bloodhound came trudging out of the hut. He suffered Wilhelmina's dog to sniff him politely, unenthusiastically accepted the invitation to reciprocate, and slowly walked over to the nearest tree.

Poor beast.

Poppy had overheard Filius and Aurora speaking about him after breakfast. Everyone was worried about Hagrid, wishing him back sooner rather than later, but there was no comparison to the pining of old Fang. He had refused to take up lodgings with another teacher, even with Wilhelmina, instead preferring to stay in his familiar surroundings, and he could hardly even be motivated to accompany Wilhelmina on her thrice-daily walks.

For the moment, it wasn't much of a problem. The door could remain ajar, so Fang could follow the calls of nature at his leisure. Yet once the students arrived, it would have to be locked. Nobody wanted to risk a curious teenager peeking into the seemingly deserted hut, only to encounter a bloodhound who probably wasn't in a mood for entertaining.

Down in the grounds, Wilhelmina had disappeared behind the hut. She wouldn't be gone for long, Poppy suspected, for her dog was still merrily digging up molehills by the pumpkin patch.

The door was open, and Poppy saw that a square chalk mark of perhaps two feet by two had appeared on its lower half.

When Wilhelmina returned, it was with a saw, a screwdriver, and what looked like two hinges.

Poppy Pomfrey gave a small sigh and set out to retrieve bandages and a bottle of Mind-the-Gash.

/\/\/\

Come to think of it, female breasts were marvellous body parts.

They came in all shapes and sizes, in all weights and consistencies. Some had skin so translucent that one could see the veins running through them; some came with nipples no bigger than pinheads, or with areolas the size of old Galleons. Yet whatever they looked and felt like, they all had soft flesh that was beautiful to the touch, and they all had the ability to give intense pleasure to their owners, with nerve endings so numerous and sensitive that they alone could make a woman achieve the heights of sexual pleasure, if only one knew how to handle them.

"Earth to Poppy! Are you with me?"

Poppy's head darted up, and an amused pair of eyes behind square-rimmed spectacles met hers.

"You can keep examining them for the next hour if you wish, but I'd quite appreciate an interim report at some point."

"Sorry," Poppy got up and straightened her apron. "No abnormality. I'd like to do a more thorough scan someday, but next year will still be early enough."

"Of course," Minerva said. It was her usual reply to medical suggestions, and it was her usual routine to forget about them until Poppy's browbeating and blackmailing became even more of a bother than actually making the appointment and keeping it.

"Are you going to tell me where that mind of yours was today, or do I have to bribe you with alcohol and Belgian chocolates?" Minerva asked through the cotton of the chemise she was pulling over her head.

"I'll take your Ogden's and your champagne truffles any time," Poppy replied as she smoothed the sheet on the examination table and ran her wand over it. "But I wouldn't possibly know what you mean."

"Don't take me for a fool, Poppy Pomfrey." Minerva buttoned up the front of her robe and turned to the mirror to check her bun. "You've been pensive and distracted for days. You hum in the corridors. I've even overheard the Malfoy boy telling his thugs that you'd been unusually gentle with him when he reported to you with a sudden bout of nausea that had just _happened_to overcome him in my class last week."

"What if I simply took pity on the boy for having to undergo double Transfiguration on a Friday afternoon?"

"Fiddlesticks. You're absent-minded, and you smile at the oddest moments. You even smiled at Severus this morning, did you notice that? Poor chap was so shocked he almost smiled back. In fact, you're like back when you had that fling with your ice-cream man. Poppy Pomfrey, if you ask me: you're in love."

"Oh, shush," Poppy said. "At my age." But she knew the very moment she'd spoken the words that she needn't have bothered. Her cheeks had never before played along with her fibs - why would they start now? Faced with Minerva McGonagall to boot - best friend of decades and schoolmarm extraordinaire.

Through the mirror by the folding-screen, Minerva hadn't taken an eye off Poppy as she fastened the final pins to her head. Her appearance restored to her satisfaction, she turned around and folded her arms with a smirk.

"Who is it?"

"I said it's nothing, Minerva."

Minerva peered over her spectacles. "I don't know who you are," she said, "but I'll have you know that I carry a wand. Reveal yourself immediately and tell me where you've hidden the real Poppy Pomfrey." She crossed her arms in front of her chest and leaned against the windowsill. "You know, the woman who went to school with me and with whom I shared all my secrets? The woman in whom I have such complete and utter confidence that I even trusted her with my most intimate revelations? The woman who is the only person in this castle, apart from one obvious exception, who knows that I occasionally share my bed with a man who could be my son and, according to the third-year grapevine, actually _is_my son?"

"Do I detect a hint of guilt-tripping there?"

"Guilt-tripping?" Minerva's hand darted to her chest. "I'm a teacher. I never use guilt!"

"Of course." Poppy picked an imaginary speck of dust off the examination table. "All right, you win, Minerva McGonagall. I'll admit that I have perhaps a little crush on someone."

"There, that's my girl," Minerva said as she got up from the windowsill and went over to the shelf where Poppy kept her tea-things. "And who, if I may ask, is the lucky object of this little crush you perhaps have?"

"Oh, Minerva, please." Poppy set out towards the beds and began to re-straighten a perfectly straight sheet. "I don't even know if there is something to it." Fluffed up a perfectly fluffed-up pillow. "It may simply be that I'm just an ageing woman who remembers that she once was young, and who suddenly imagines things as they might have been."

"Now, _that_sounds intriguing."

When the perfectly smooth blanket at the foot of bed twelve couldn't be smoothed any smoother, Poppy sat down heavily on the mattress. "Believe me, it is."

"Very well." Minerva had begun to inspect Poppy's tea tins, shaking her head in dissatisfaction each time she opened a lid. "Allow my scientific mind to run a few probabilities, then."

Poppy sighed. She knew that there was no stopping Minerva; they'd been friends long enough to know who needed how much encouragement when it came to talking over matters of the heart. And, truth be told, she didn't mind.

Meanwhile, Minerva had taken out her wand and stuck its tip into the Orange Pekoe tin. The leaves sizzled and gave off a decidedly malty smell as she continued. "It hasn't escaped me that the beginning of your perhaps-little-crush has coincided approximately with the start of term. Which either means that you have developed a late-onset fetish for pink cardigans, or ..." She lifted her glasses off the bridge of her nose to inspect the result of her roasting project.

"... Or been strangely affected by an old woman with a dog and a surprising talent for getting her body parts in the way of her tools," Poppy sighed at last.

"Wilhelmina?" Minerva looked up, and there was an approving nod as she scooped four generous spoons of the blackened, curled-up tea leaves into a strainer. "Good choice."

"And not the type I usually go for. Would you like dragon-hide gloves for that?"

Minerva ignored the remark and put the kettle on. "Of course she's your type," she said. "She's respectful. Honest. Caring. Bit on the sturdy side, even."

"And a woman."

"Pfft!" Minerva chose a mug from the shelf and placed the strainer inside. "What does that have to say? Besides, she's probably more of a man than much of what runs around at Hogwarts under that label. And more of a woman than many of them will ever have, I should wager." She paused for a moment as she poured boiling water into her cup. "But what's that nonsense about Wilhelmina and tool mishaps?"

"Well, it seems that this woman attracts tool-related accidents like Rosmerta attracts teenage boys."

Minerva laughed. "Wilhelmina Grubby-Plank? Not in a million years."

"I'm telling you."

"Well, if that is the case, then the matter is clear." Minerva eyed the brew in her mug, apparently debating whether to speed up the process with a bit of magic. "Ask her to dinner and tell her you're fond of her."

"What?"

"No other possibility exists. Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank may understand her animals from the way they wag their ears or slant their eyes. In human interaction, however, she requires a prose that is a lot more frank than that."

"But I don't even know if she even feels remotely the same about me!"

Minerva glanced at the ceiling. "Please. You're talking about a woman who was born with a tool belt grafted to her hips, and who rarely sees a healer for anything less than a half-severed arm."

"But what if I just think I'm in love? What if it's just an old woman's hormones going crazy? What if I find that ... I mean, I've never been with a woman. What if I'm not ... what if I can't ..."

"Fiddlesticks." Minerva took a sip from her concoction and seemed most satisfied with it. "Follow your heart and your hormones, and the rest will come." She took the mug and a stack of books she had picked up from the library before the appointment. "You'll do fine," she said as she brushed her friend's forehead with a sisterly kiss. "You're a dab hand with a breast already, Poppy Pomfrey. Trust me, you'll make a damn dashing dyke."

And at that, she left.

**oOo **

In the days that followed, Poppy had little time to ponder Minerva's suggestion.

It had been a busy weekend in the ward. October had arrived, and with it, the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year. Which meant that dozens of teenage tummies had to be tended to, of students who simply wouldn't learn that there was a natural limit to how many Honeydukes' sweets a human stomach could take. A few hexes had to be reversed, two ankles un-sprained, and a broken heart mended with a bit of hot chocolate, a maternal hug, and the firm protestation that he never deserved such a fine girl as she in the first place.

Now it was Monday morning, and quiet had returned to the hospital wing.

Or almost.

"Morning!"

Poppy gave a start at the deep voice that announced her most loyal customer.

"Now what?"

She turned around, expecting bandages, makeshift patches, bruises, and torn clothes. Instead, she saw Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, properly dressed and impeccably clean, in boiled-wool robes over a chequered shirt that was definitely still in one piece, and a pipe clenched between her teeth.

On her left arm, she carried an owl.

Wilhelmina stopped short by the threshold, fished for her wand, and flicked it at her pipe, which stopped fuming in an instant.

"Sorry 'bout this," she mumbled. "Had a free period. Potter boy just came to the staff room; his owl's been attacked."

"Goodness." Poppy motioned them to the back of the hospital wing and pointed at a table by the window. She put on her reading glasses and looked at the bird. "I'm not an expert on this, but this looks vile."

Wilhelmina nodded. "I'll need some help. Seems like the carpometacarpus is broken several times. I'd like to mend it, but without disturbing the muscular tissue or making her lose any feathers. Wouldn't be able to fly for weeks otherwise. But I'll need someone to hold her quite still when I do that. I could have asked Minerva, but she tends to get a tad fidgety around birds."

"Of course. How do I do it?"

"Just put your hands here and here ..." - Wilhelmina indicated the spots with her chin - "... and hold her firmly. Don't let her flutter too much, or I'll hit the wrong bones. Complicated things, wings. She might peck, though. If you feel more comfortable, I could spell her beak closed."

"Won't that stress her?"

"It sure will. She's better without. But it'll be safer for you."

"Yes, well. Too bad there isn't a healer around."

A dimple appeared on Wilhelmina's cheek. "All right. At least let me do an Impeckability charm."

"What does it do?" Poppy asked. "Numb the nerve ends?"

Wilhelmina nodded.

"Very well. But keep it to the back of the hand. That should be enough, and otherwise I won't feel anything when I hold her, am I right?"

"Correct," Wilhelmina said. "Thank you." It sounded relieved.

Poppy held out her hands to let Wilhelmina run her wand over them. They were strange things, anaesthesia charms. Difficult, because one had to make sure they acted only on the nerves, not on any vital functions. Often, they were even impossible to cast, which could result in restless nights both for the patients and for Poppy. With dread, she remembered the night in which she had to re-grow the bones in Potter' arm.

When the charm was cast, she wrapped her hands around the bird's body, firmly, just as Wilhelmina had indicated. The owl - Hedwig, Poppy knew - was far from amused at this morning's continued assault on her physical integrity and tried to wriggle herself out of Poppy's grip with every last bit of strength she had. But Poppy knew the sort. If you couldn't convince them that treatment was for their own good, there was no point in showing pity and understanding. So she held the owl, throwing in a word of praise if the bird stayed still for a fleeting moment, and flexed her upper arms so her hands wouldn't shake from all that fluttering, the wing would remain firmly in place, and the procedure at least would be over fast.

Meanwhile, Wilhelmina had carefully taken the tip of the wing between her fingers. If anything, that had only spurred Hedwig's resistance. Poppy braced herself. Mending bones was not a pleasant task, neither for the healer, since the spells were difficult, nor for the patient, because they also happened to hurt like hell. Wilhelmina's low incantations were nearly drowned out by Hedwig's screeches, and Poppy wished she could do wandless ear-plugging spells. Yet not two minutes passed until Wilhelmina spelled on a firm, snow-white bandage and spoke the relieving words: "All done."

Poppy let go of the bird immediately. She must have paid too little attention, for as Hedwig stalked off in a huff, she did so with a last, indignant peck at the nearest offending fingertip.

"Ouch!" It had happened to be Poppy's.

"Damn!"

Wilhelmina raised her wand and Summoned the bandages and the pink jar. She'd had ample opportunity to observe Poppy fetch both before, so it didn't take her a moment to decide which cabinet to turn to. She took Poppy's hand in hers, flicked her wand at the gash in the pulp of the finger to slow down the bleeding (stopping it by wand magic was only advisable in life-threatening cases; ointments were generally safer) and opened the jar.

Poppy watched Wilhelmina's face as she felt the cool ointment on her skin. No hesitation there as to what quantity to apply and how firmly to rub it on. She could have sworn that there was that dimple.

"Excellent formulation, DermaMend, don't you think?" Poppy asked casually.

"Oh, absolutely. Swear by it, I do." Nonchalantly.

"A must-have for any healer."

"Can't do without."

"It does feel rather good after the first sting."

"Sure does. Always depends on the person who does it, though. Not the same if one does it oneself."

Their eyes met, and Poppy noticed that the dimple had matured into a clearly visible twitch in the corner of Wilhelmina's mouth.

"There, that should do it," she said after a while, her voice its usual, brisk self again. Poppy looked at her hand, and indeed, not a trace of the wound was left.

"What are you going to do with her now?" Poppy asked as Wilhelmina turned around to cajole the owl into agreeing to be carried out of the hospital wing. Hedwig, however, continued to be obstinate.

Wilhelmina decided to resort to bribery and fished a treat one of her many trouser pockets. "I'll take her home with me until the bandage comes off. Might feel dizzy and out of spirits for a night or so, but she should be fine."

"I hope so," Poppy said. "That attack looked as if whoever did it meant business."

"Sure did. Ruthless thing to do, hurt a bird to stop a child's letter being delivered."

"Do you think that's what it was?"

"No doubt. First I thought it was Thestrals, but the Hogwarts Thestrals go for ailing animals only. And they don't inflict comminuted fractures like that. That's spell damage, that is. And nothing a student would learn here."

"So you think ..."

"I think what you probably think, too. Mark of someone who doesn't mind inflicting a bit of bodily harm for the greater good, isn't it? S'pose it's lucky she didn't kill the bird."

"Will she recover fully, do you think?"

"I think so. She's a tough bird." Hedwig had hopped onto Wilhelmina's shoulder at last, and Wilhelmina readied herself to leave. She paused, however, as if she tried to remember if she had forgotten something.

"If you ..." she began.

"Yes?" Poppy asked when the sentence didn't continue.

"If you had a little time to spare sometime this evening, would you do me the pleasure of an after-dinner drink? I couldn't have treated the bird without you, and ..."

"I would love that!"

**oOo **

That had been that morning.

And now, as the clock above the main gate struck midnight, here was Poppy Pomfrey, naked in Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank's bed, surrounded by a small zoo, sleepy and satisfied, and still with that hand between her thighs that had, for one fleeting second, made her physiologically-interested mind wonder how far a woman had to come down from a climax for it to count as multiple - or simply as very, very long.

Not that it mattered for practical purposes.

She shifted lightly under the weight of Wilhelmina's head, mindful not to wake her.

She had knocked at the door of the cottage a little before nine. She hadn't wanted to be too early, and besides, some time had gone into the choice of a garment. Not the robes - she'd have felt silly to go with anything but her usual. But the undergarments, that was different. Some exquisite lingerie did wonders for the posture, and miracles for the confidence. It was a lesson she'd learned from her daughter-in-law, and one that was as useful as it was enjoyable. So for the sake of posture and confidence, she had opted for a fine set of Madam Malkin's lace, cut generously enough to cover her ample curves above and below the waistline. Subtle support with a silky feel - Madam Malkin's advertisements did not lie.

Thus, the clock had just struck three quarters of the hour as Wilhelmina opened, accompanied by her curious dog, and bade her enter. Poppy hadn't seen the cottage since Rolanda had moved out, and it had changed considerably in the meantime. Not only had the Quidditch hangings and trophies and medals disappeared and a motley crew of animals moved in - no, the place had also taken a considerable step towards the cosy. Rolanda had never spent much time in this cottage even when she still lived here, but this now clearly bore the mark of someone who liked to be at home, and to _feel_at home, too. The wooden floor was covered with simple cotton rugs (multicoloured, which both looked rather pleasant and was probably advantageous if one frequently hosted furry animals), and a table with mix-and-match chairs stood by a bay window. The bookshelf was small, but well-stocked with professional literature and what looked like a few ancient women's travel reports. A fire crackled in the fireplace, and before it, there stood an old, battered armchair and a chequered couch on whose armrest lay a thick, folded blanket.

"What may I offer you?" Wilhelmina had asked after she'd given Poppy some time to look around. "I'm not much of a wine person, but I have a nice, old Malmsey. Unless you prefer something more domestic, of course."

"I'll join you in whatever you have."

"Talisker?"

"Talisker it shall be."

They'd taken their seats on the couch, next to each other, and watched the fire for a while. Talked shop and gossiped a little, but only a little, for there were only so many colleagues and students that they cared to let into their evening. Spoke of married life and research projects in India, and of the similarities between unicorn foals and teenage sons. And by the time they'd arrived at their second tumblers, they'd already been deep into the childhood stories. Wilhelmina had talked about growing up on a farm, and of being one of three girls and "Da's only son", as she put it. She'd spoken about discovering her knack for animals, her first signs of magic - healing magic, like Poppy's - and told anecdotes about hated skirts and forbidden sailor suits that sounded much funnier than the first-hand experience must have been. Poppy, in turn, had spoken of growing up in a pastor's household, with no toys and no dolls but a large library and a desk of her own, and stories about women the world could lean on. When Poppy had been very young, her real father had left her mother for a blond wizard with lofty ideas, and her mother, with no inheritance and no education to speak of, had been lucky to find work as the housekeeper of the kind, old Squib in a black cloak who came to be, for Poppy, the father she'd never had and the grandfather every girl would have wished for.

They took small sips from their tumblers and watched the sparks flying in the fireplace. They looked at each other, and there was the reflection of the flames in Wilhelmina's eyes, though the sparks may well have been her own. The dimple cast a small shadow on the cheek.

It had been at that point that Poppy had known what to do.

She'd set down her tumbler, and she'd reached for Wilhelmina's hand. Had run her thumb over the back of the hand, the rugged skin, tanned and with small, dark shadows that had begun to appear here and there.

The hand hadn't pulled back. It had stayed there, fingers closing around hers, slowly, as if Poppy's hand might vanish if one held on to it too tightly. That shy streak that Poppy had found so charming, there it was.

And then Poppy leaned forward, brought her face within inches of Wilhelmina's, and let her lips speak a prose that couldn't possibly be franker.

A shiver ran through her when she felt Wilhelmina respond. There was a bit of apprehension, but there were also excitement and palpitation, and a small rush of pleasure in a place that really shouldn't have any business being involved at that point, as she felt a pair of arms wrapping themselves around her, lips that tasted of a hint of the Isle of Skye and the shadow of an earlier pipe, and a tongue that managed to find hers at long last, after she'd given far more than a little hint that it would be welcome.

She didn't know when they broke the kiss, if they broke it at all before Wilhelmina took both Poppy's hands and they got up from the sofa. All she knew was that, at one point, Wilhelmina's hand had slipped between the buttons of her robe and on to her bare back, that the flannel shirt had landed on the floor or the armchair or wherever to reveal a sensible bra that held a larger pair of breasts than she'd ever have suspected under a men's shirt, and that her dark blue robes, their shoes, the sensible bra and various socks and stockings had come off long before Poppy's back touched the patchwork quilt in Wilhelmina's bedroom.

"Show me what to do," she whispered as she pulled Wilhelmina down with her and ran her fingers through the stubbly hair.

"There's no 'what to do,'" Wilhelmina said. "There's only what you like." She turned around to light a fire in the hearth, which took three attempts because she'd left her wand in the sitting room, and cupped Poppy's chin in her hand as she asked: "What _do_you like?"

"Take your time," was all Poppy said.

And so Wilhelmina did. She took her time moving from Poppy's lips to her neck, and on to the breasts that still lay safely tucked away in the cream-coloured lace. She took her time running her hand over the soft, round stomach, the waist, the hips, and took her time exploring the spots that most wanted to be kissed, that could take a firmer touch, and that were perhaps best avoided.

Wilhelmina took her time unhooking the bra, with a "Don't worry" as she noticed the apprehension in Poppy's eyes, for Poppy had never been confident about her connective tissue unless it was kept in shape by the fruits of the labour of a good seamstress. And Wilhelmina wasn't in a rush when she freed the breasts from their cups, one by one, and welcomed them with a show of dimple as she saw the nipples that spoke a very frank prose indeed.

Poppy, too, took her time. Savoured the touches, fought back the impulse to rush the pleasure by spreading her legs too early, although, by Morgana, she was ready, and gave a soft moan as Wilhelmina discovered just how much of a liberty she was welcome to take with that nipple. Yet Poppy had never been one for one-sidedness, and so she rose from the mattress to push Wilhelmina back into the cushions, and lowered herself above her to tend to those ample breasts, this solid body and, at last, that infuriating waistband with its metal-buckled belt.

And there it was, all of a sudden. Among her own arousal, among the curiosity and the excitement, there was the confidence. Whether it came from Wilhelmina's response, from the soft "yes" in her ears or the hips that had, slowly and gently, begun to seek hers - Poppy knew what she wanted to do. So she slipped her hand under the waistband, teased the buttons of the trousers open one by one, and when she felt Wilhelmina's warmth, felt her turn soft at her touch, she gathered all her magic, spelled off their remaining clothes, and abandoned herself to the feeling of their naked bodies, the scent of warm skin, and, at last, Wilhelmina's hand.

**oOo **

The clock above the main gate struck midnight.

The animals and their carer were fast asleep, and even the fire had died down. Only Poppy and her thoughts were still awake.

Wilhelmina's hand had moved up and come to rest on Poppy's stomach.

Poppy smiled. How she had wanted this hand. How she had welcomed it, relished its touch that was now gentle, now demanding and forceful. She had come at its touches and strokes, and since she'd been at it, she'd then come at Wilhelmina's pleasure as well, for Poppy Pomfrey wasn't the type to let a pleasure go unreciprocated.

And now, much later, the two of them were lying there, entangled in the sheets and with each other, heavy and sated and not a little out of breath. After a last, lazy kiss with half-closed eyes, Wilhelmina had drifted into a light sleep, and as Poppy pulled the patchwork quilt over both of them, just for another few minutes' warmth until she'd really have to go back up to her quarters, she thought that perhaps Minerva hadn't been all that wrong.

She might make a damn dashing dyke.

**oOo oOo oOo **


End file.
